The Shoulders of an Old Warlock
by DoctorStonegarden
Summary: What if Gaius was one of two sorcerers spared in the Great Purge? What if that other sorcerer was the greatest who would ever live? What if that other sorcerer was... Merlin... Rather AU; Merlin is already an old man when he arrives in Camelot. Read on!
1. The Dragon's Call

_**A/N:**___What if Gaius was one of two sorcerers spared by Uther in the Great Purge? What if that other sorcerer was the greatest who would ever live? What if that sorcerer was… [Kilgharrah-esque whisper] **Merlin**…

**X**

_No man, no matter how great, can truly know his destiny…_

_He cannot glimpse his part in the great story that is about to unfold; like everyone, he must live, and learn._

_And so it will be for the old warlock arriving at the gates of Camelot… a man, who will in time father a legend._

_The name he will be remembered by… is **Merlin**…_

The chalk lane cut a stark line across the green moors and grey mountains at the rider's back, vanishing beneath the forest canopy before him, spreading out from the base of the high hill he paused at the apex of.

The old rider absentmindedly patted his chestnut mare as he shifted in his cracked saddle, pushing up the brim of his broad-brimmed, black felt hat, to better see his destination, gunmetal-grey locks shorn at the shoulders and tugged by the wind.

A permanent grin just as bright as the trailing strip of crimson cloth wound about his neck graced the old man's lips, the free end of the scarf swishing behind him. He was dressed in a dark robe, the smoky blue of thunderclouds at twilight, belted at the waist, his short sword dangling half-concealed by the tattered wine-red cloak flung around his shoulders. Unconsciously, the old rider fingered the hilt of his blade as he espied the grey-white turrets of Camelot thrusting up from the green sea of leaf and bough that surrounded it, his smile dimming a tad.

His eyes, as dark a thundercloud-blue as his robe, normally mirthful and glimmering mischievously, lost some of their twinkle.

Then, moment of melancholy already fading and forgotten, Dragoon continued on his way.

**X**

Dragoon didn't bother asking for directions; he knew where he was going.

A guardsman gave him a curious look as the old man slipped through an archway and up a flight of stairs, but Dragoon was used to it.

After all, with his beard and robes and staff, he may as well be a sorcerer. And everyone in Camelot knew what happened to sorcerers.  
>Dragoon had just been given an unpleasant reminder as he entered the castle courtyard. He had stood and watched as an almost certainly innocent man was beheaded, and fought back the urge to comfort the grieving mother right before she vanished in a swirl of wind and rags – all the while suppressing his magic, which threatened to lash out at the executioner, or spirit the doomed man to safety.<p>

Because Dragoon was, in fact, a sorcerer, and a very powerful one; though he hid most of his power and would deny that he even possessed magic, which would be a reasonable reaction by anyone accused of sorcery in a place such as Camelot.

And if you looked closely, the idea seemed absurd; it was hardly unusual for a man of his age to have a beard; the only book in his pack was a collection of myths and legends translated into the common speech, not a tome of dark magic; his staff did not thrum with power, nor was it adorned with glowing crystals, or runes of magic; it was just a sturdy branch he had adopted as a walking aid and ruffian-repellent.

And of course, sorcerers were supposed to be wicked, scheming, _evil_, monsters, and Dragoon was not any of those things, or so he liked to think; and indeed, so he had been told.

Examination of any length by anybody would show that Dragoon the Great was a – supposedly – harmless old man, who was definitely not magical in any way.

Like so many of Dragoon's greatest ideas, hiding in plains sight was so stupid that it could not fail. At least, as long as he was careful.

Which was something he could maybe do with practicing, even at his age.

Humming absentmindedly as only an old man can get away with, Dragoon hauled himself up a familiar flight of stairs, reaching a sign that he hadn't laid eyes on in well over a decade.

With the briefest moment of hesitation, the old warlock mounted the last of the stairs, pushed the door open with a homely creak, and entered the chambers of the Court Physician.

**X**

Gaius was, to say the least, rather surprised when he fell through the balcony in his chambers.

The collision with the floor would have almost certainly sundered his spine and a few other vital things besides, potentially killing him instantly, before his panic could fully take form.

Or, he might have lain there indefinitely, dying in agony and consumed by fear.

He never found out.

Quite suddenly, the old physician felt himself slowing down in the air, the comfortable tingling sensation of the familiar magic of an old friend cocooning him, like a giant, invisible hug.

Gaius was jolted from his sudden, breathless, descent as he landed in a pair of sturdy old arms, possessed of a surprising sinewy strength despite their skinniness and the age of their owner.

His old eyes coming into focus, Gaius locked his gaze with an all too familiar set of thundercloud-blue irises, staring amusedly down at him beneath the brim of an enormous hat and a raised eyebrow.

Dragoon set his old friend down onto his feet, plucking his staff and bag from the floor while Gaius caught his breath.

With a flash of golden eyes, Gaius's bed slid over the flags to where the physician was standing, and he collapsed gratefully onto it.

The two regarded each other with raised eyebrows for a second, before Gaius broke the silence.

"You're not meant to be here until Wednesday!"

Dragoon chuckled, propping his staff up against the wall and dropping his bag beside it.

"It _is_Wednesday."

Gaius frowned, but then returned the affectionate grin Dragoon flashed at him.

Goodness, was he getting senile? Dragoon certainly wasn't. Neither was he showing any signs of the aches and pains that were plaguing Gaius as he bent down to look for something in his pack, with all the ease of a man half his age.

"I can't help but envy you, Merlin. It's been twenty years, and the only part of you age has touched is your face."

Dragoon stiffened and stopped his rummaging. Gaius realised his mistake, flinching a little.

"Sorry… Dragoon."

Dragoon stood back up, an apologetic smile on his face, a folded letter in his hand, slightly crumpled in his surprise.

"No, I'm sorry, Gaius. I'm just not used to anyone but Hunith calling me that anymore."

Gaius snorted, and took the proffered letter.

"You really haven't changed at all."

"My beard's longer!"

**X**

_My Dear Gaius,_

_It is every child's fate to worry about their parents, and yet I would give my life were my worries not justified._

_I thank you for sending for my father, to Camelot; even if you did not tell of your need for him, he knows that it is serious. Whatever it may turn out to be, you have given him a focus, something no-one has been able to do for many years._

_He is so close to losing himself to bitterness, though on the outside he seems as he has always been, even if he has sometimes come close to losing control of his powers._

_Ours is a small village; people are beginning to suspect what he is, and he is so clearly at odds with people here that, if he were to remain, I fear what would become of him – us._

_He needs a shoulder to lean on again, rather than his daughter's hand to hold; a friend's voice to counsel him where his child's comforts cannot; someone that might help him find a purpose again, and help him shed his past._

_You once called him the brother you never had; I beg you, Gaius, as that brother, keep him safe._

_Hunith_

Gaius stared at the letter, allowing the passionate words of a worried daughter to sink in.

He glanced at the door of the room where Dragoon had once slept, so many years ago, and was getting comfortable in now.

The man in question poked his head around the door, evidently happy to be back.

"Don't tell me – she wants you to make sure I'm eating enough, don't do any magic in public places, that kind of thing?"  
>Gaius smiled, and nodded.<p>

"She's worried about you. Your powers…"

"Are _stable,__" _Dragoon said firmly, immediately slipping into a more jovial tone. "It has been months since I accidentally set something on fire."

Gaius shook his head.

"Just be careful, Dragoon."

**X**

The wooden target suddenly halted, coming to rest under the hefty boot of an old man.

The selfsame old man smiled disarmingly at the young, blonde, athletic man who could only be the prince, hefting his walking staff from the right hand to the left.

"That's enough. You've had your fun, young man."

The prince stared coldly at the twinkle-eyed, bearded old man who dared to stand up to him.

No-one talked like that to the prince of Camelot, not even a greybeard.

"Do I know you?"

The old man raised an eyebrow.

"When you were a baby, perhaps."

The prince bristled a little, more than a bit confused.

"So you know who I am?"

"Yes, of course." The strange old man took a step forwards. "I didn't think you'd grow up to be this much of an ass, though, _sire_."

Prince Arthur Pendragon being possessed of that annoying school of thought that dictates winning something – be it argument or duel to the death – is more important than anything, stepped forwards until he was almost nose to nose with the subject of his displeasure, and spoke with the arrogance that had allowed the old sorcerer to identify him so easily.

"Tell me, greybeard, how loudly will your knees protest if you walk on them?"

"If you're suggesting I start crawling away, I will do no such thing! My days of clambering through collapsed caves and ruins in search of dark sorcerers are long over."

"An old fool like you, a sorcerer killer? Don't make me laugh."

Arthur smirked.

"At least I made you smile." The old man shot back.  
>Arthur stopped smirking, and lunged for the uniquely infuriating old man, who wasn't there when he expected him to be.<p>

For goodness sake, why was it so hard to instil respect in some people?

The old man rapped the prince lightly on the side of the head with his staff, dodging another lunge with remarkable speed.

"Does the princeling want to dance? I warn you, Arthur Pendragon, I've been dancing with bandits and assassins and monsters since before you were born."

Arthur swung his sword from his sheath in one fluid motion, whirling it expertly.

The prince's eyes strayed to his blade for just a moment to check his form, when…

He was flat on his face with a mouthful of dirt, sword thudding into the grass beside him, knights and townsfolk and servants gasping as an old man none of them had seen before swept the prince's legs from beneath him in one fluid motion of his staff.

The prince raised his sky-blue eyes to meet a pair of thunder-cloud blue irises.

The old man's eyes sparkled with mirth and mischief, gaiety, pure joy at simply being alive. But behind that carefree, careless front, there was quiet wisdom – dusty and in need of a good exercising, but there, and powerful wisdom it was, too.

Behind that secret wisdom, there were _secrets_.

Locked away tightly and suppressed with years of practice, but like his wisdom, very much there, and very _dangerous_.

Those eyes bored into Arthur – right into his very soul, those ageless eyes in an old face, not at all rheumy or clouded but filled with the vitality only a youth can muster and, somehow, the experience only the old have earned.

For a moment that spun onwards for quite a while, but was really only a second, those eyes grated across Arthur's soul, and he felt like the old man was searching out every feature and flaw, sweeping the dust and debris out of every nook and turning over everything he found in his hands.

The very fibre of Arthur's being was under scrutiny, and it didn't look as though this strange old man liked what he saw very much.

Then, Arthur remembered that he was the prince of Camelot, he had just been knocked to the ground by a man who was probably four times his age, everyone was staring at them both, and here they were gazing into each other's eyes like long-lost lovers.

Snatching his sword, Arthur sprang back to his feet, but the old man was already out of reach, walking casually away.

"We've had our fun, my young friend."

"I'm not your friend, old man."

Dragoon snorted, derisively, and carried on walking.

"You are right. I could never be friends with a prat like you."

"I could take you apart with one blow, greybeard!" Arthur shouted indignantly at the retreating figure of the strange old man.

The old man stopped at the edge of the training ground, and turned around again, a devilish smirk playing on his lips.

"And I, princeling, could take you apart with less. But it would be too messy, so if your pratness will excuse me, I'm going to the tavern."

**X**

Dragoon and Gaius shared a glance and bit back guffaws as they watched a dozen guards pile haphazardly into the Rising Sun tavern in search of a certain ex-sorcerer who had dared humiliate the prince. Aforementioned ex-sorcerer and the old physician were ensconced in an alleyway down the street, watching as the guards were promptly expelled from the tavern by the irate innkeeper, and headed down the street towards Dragoon's hiding place.

With a conspiratorial wink Gaius stepped out of the alleyway, railing about the incompetence of the city watch and the ruination of his favourite robe by the subject of the guards' search. The court physician was a truly terrifying spectacle mid-rant, and the guards – deciding that returning to the castle and informing the prince of their failure was far less dangerous than crossing Gaius – rushed back to the citadel to report that, _no__sire,__there__was__no__bearded__old__man__in__the__tavern,__sire,_ _he__just__vanished,__sire,__there__'__s__no__sign__of__him,__sire._

The guardsmen scurried away, backsides and ears stinging from the wrath of the innkeeper and the ravings of the physician. The moment they disappeared around the bend, Dragoon let out his withheld chuckles, leaning against the house he was tucked behind. With a final bark of laughter and a shake of his head, Gaius strode off up the street, back to work.

Dragoon blew out his cheeks and took a seat on a convenient crate.

He glanced up at the sound of a pair of feet approaching apprehensively, to find a dark-skinned girl regarding him curiously.

He smiled, and beckoned her over with a fatherly wave.

She extended a hand from beneath her scarlet cloak.

"I'm Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen. I'm the lady Morgana's maid."

They shook, and Dragoon hauled himself to his feet.

"I call myself Dragoon."

She smiled, paused, and continued.

"It was very brave of you to stand up to Arthur like that."

"It was stupid. My first day back in Camelot and I make an enemy of the prince."

"At least you got away without getting hurt... which is more than I can say for anyone else who's been around the prince for long."

"I could have beaten him."

"Are you sure you would have the… stamina?"

"Thanks?"

"No! I'm sure if someone as… er… someone like you can trip up the best knight in Camelot then you could give him a run for his money in a fight, it's just that Arthur's one of these real rough-tough, save-the-world kind of men, and, well…"

"What?"

"You look a bit old for that."

The old sorcerer's eyes twinkled, and he beckoned her closer.

"I'm in disguise…"

Gwen's tinkly laugh echoed down the alley.

"It's one of my better ideas," Dragoon continued, "No-one ever expects an old man to be capable of kicking ass."

She smiled and gathered her skirts as she made to leave.

"Well, it's great that someone stood up to him. Arthur's a bully, and everyone thought you were a real hero."  
>She turned, and stepped out into the street, but stopped and giggled at the something further down the road.<p>

"It looks like your fans are waiting, Dragoon!"

Dragoon craned his neck, to see a gaggle of townspeople pointing and whispering at him.

Gwen smiled in farewell and hastened away to tell her mistress about the strange old man who had made an ass of the prince.

Dragoon, meanwhile, sat back down on his crate, and was promptly surrounded by a horde of peasants eager for a grossly exaggerated retelling of the confrontation.

And Dragoon, being a master storyteller, did not disappoint.

**X**

"Gaius?"

"Hmm?"

"What is this 'urgent business' you said I needed to come to Camelot for?"  
>Gaius sighed and glanced at his old friend, beginning to feel the tendrils of self-hate wrapping themselves around his heart for what he was about to send Dragoon into.<p>

Dragoon did not miss the regretful look that washed over the physician's face as he said this.

"Gaius?"

"There is someone… who wishes to speak with you. He said that it was of the greatest importance."

"Who?"

Gaius looked pointedly down at the floor, and then back up at Dragoon.

The old warlock's eyes widened as he caught the intended meaning.

"Kilgharrah." He said, quietly enough to almost be lost in the crackle of the evening fire the two old men were warming their bones before.

"You can still leave, you know." Gaius whispered.

Dragoon sighed.

"I cannot run from my destiny, whatever it may be."

With a deep breath and several moments' hesitation, he stood up, and headed for the door, swinging his cloak and scarf around his shoulders and firmly settling his hat upon his aged head.

Snatching up his staff, Dragoon caught sight of Gaius's Eyebrow of Skepticism in full up-ness.

"There is no such thing as overdressing when you are about to hold counsel with the Great Dragon, Gaius."

"Just don't get caught. And good luck."

"Oh, you know me. I'm always careful!"

For a moment, stood in the doorway, Dragoon looked grey and bent and weary, going straight into what could only be danger armed only with the knowledge that what the Dragon would tell him could never, under any circumstances, be considered good news.

And then, his unnaturally youthful energy returned.

With that, Dragoon went to face his destiny.

**X**

At some point in the past, Dragoon mused, the guards must have been trained to ignore people in cloaks, no matter how obtrusively flappy and regardless of whether they were the crimson of Camelot's knights or not.

The old sorcerer swished into an alcove, and instinctively held his breath as a jangling pair of guards stomped past.

Shaking his head, the old warlock slipped down the dungeon staircase.

It was even easier to get past the guards down there.

Honestly, any sorcerer who wanted to give Uther some extra scars would actually get the job done if they knew a few of Dragoon's more ingenious glamours – such as a lovely little spell he liked to call 'I'm Meant To Be Here', which did exactly what you might expect.

The guards' eyes flicked upwards to him as he strode down the stairs and across the dungeon floor, but the spell ensured that they thought nothing of a man dressed like a sorcerer walking purposefully into the tunnel that led to the Dragon's cavernous prison.

_Stupidity__and__dice__games__will__be__the__doom__of__Camelot__some__day_, the old man mused, as the tunnel blackened, and the wide, sloping passage gave way to crudely carved vaults brimming with long-forgotten tombs.  
>"<em>Leoht<em>."

Shimmering rays of golden light spilled from Dragoon's splayed fingers, illuminating the recumbent knights and slumbering stone princesses lying row upon row, ever-silent.

**X**

Dragoon took a deep breath and rounded the corner, into the Dragon's prison proper.

Raising his arm, the light splaying out from his fingers grew brighter, reflected in the glimmering black rock and the silent stream shining silver-gold far, far below.

Then came the jangling of a chain that was never meant to be and the rustle of leathery wings that no mortal creature could possess.

With a majestic thump, Kilgharrah the Great Dragon settled himself upon an outcrop opposite the convenient ledge occupied by the old warlock.

Warlock and Dragon regarded each other with raised eyebrow and raised scaly approximation of supra-ocular follicle strip.

"Bastet got your tongue?"

The Dragon grinned in reply.

"I did not expect you so soon, old warlock."

The old man scratched the back of his head, resignedly.

"I cannot ignore my true destiny. Unless you just wanted to say hello?"

Kilgharrah snorted, orange sparks of amusement issuing from his nostrils.

"There is a reason for everything, Merlin, and the reason for my summoning you here is the greatest reason of all."  
>Dragoon involuntarily flinched at the sound of his birth-name.<p>

"Do not fear your name, Merlin. There will come a time when all will know you by it."

"Was it too much to hope you had run out of riddles after twenty years?"

"Very well." The Dragon replied, solemnly.

With a stretch of great wings, the Dragon reared up majestically, leaning forwards until his face was level with Dragoon.

"Arthur Pendragon is the Once and Future King, destined to unite Albion and return magic to the land. But he will fail without the warlock Emrys as his guardian and guide. And that is you, Merlin. You are to protect and counsel the Once and Future King on your joint road to the glorious destiny that awaits you both."

Dragoon's mouth – and by extension, his beard – was all but scraping the cavern floor.

"You must be mistaken, Dragon! There must be another Arthur, this one's a complete _prat_!"

Kilgharrah smiled, smugly benevolent.

"There is no right and wrong. Only what is and what isn't."

Dragoon cursed to himself, pacing a strip clear of dust on the ledge.

Finally, he turned back to the patient Kilgharrah, voice dripping with despair.

"I should have taken Gaius's advice and run while I had the chance."

He turned, and moved towards the stairs.

"If this is my destiny, then so be it."

As the old warlock mounted the first steps, Kilgharrah called out to him.

"Merlin?"  
>"Yes?"<p>

"It is good to see you again after so long."

**X**

It was Dragoon's third day in Camelot, and though he had avoided the stocks and the guards – though the old man did find himself in a potentially compromising situation in the lady Morgana's chambers while delivering remedies for Gaius – it was inevitable that he should encounter the prince again.

And it wasn't such a far-fetched notion that they would engage in the fair fight that Gwen had believed Dragoon could not win.

Neither of them exactly won, but both went away with some degree of respect for each other.

Dragoon for the glimpse he caught of the good man beneath Arthur's prattish façade, and Arthur for Dragoon's unusual, well, _badass-ness_.

There was no finesse or passion in the way he used his blade; it was simple, honest, workmanlike, devoid of whatever passes for frippery in swordcraft, and almost completely defensive.

It was as though he was simply a distraction, keeping his foe occupied long enough to allow someone else to creep up and land a killing blow from behind.

That or he was waiting for an opening to use one of his dirty tricks that would be below a knight, but not above a grumpy, elderly peasant with a history of combat pragmatism.

Oh, how Arthur would love to divest the wily geriatric warlock of _that__bloody__staff_ that always seemed to be snaking through the prince's legs, or lightly, _teasingly_, tapping him on the shoulder or the arm, as though this old man could quite easily throw he, Arthur Pendragon – prince of Camelot, the finest warrior in the Five Kingdoms – to the ground, but chose not to because this was more _fun_.

The old man's footwork left a lot to be desired, but that hardly mattered; Arthur could never catch him long enough to use his ambulatory failings against him.

His posture was far from perfect, but gods, the old fool was quick; as quick as any knight, but not a standing wall of muscle and skilfully employed force; no, he would never parry where he could dodge, or brutally crush a defence where he could feint or bide his time.

It was infuriating, really, fighting an opponent who played by rules even the surliest tavern brawler could not lower himself to, who refused to yield or back down even backed into a corner, who knew every trick in the book but wasn't saying which book it was or if he'd even read it at all.

A foe whose eyes shone with determination, whirling like a dervish, robes and ridiculously long scarf snapping and tossing as he spun.

A foe who should be weak and bent and sitting by a fire with grandchildren around his feet, but was bouncing around making a mockery of the prince.

A foe who was the answer to a question that had never been posed.

A foe whose name Arthur didn't even know.

**X**

Arthur thudded into a pile of hay, the cruel hand of lady luck having flicked an errant, inconveniently taut rope the way of his ankles.

Grunting, the prince made ready to throw himself up again, when he found himself going cross-eyed, the dark wood of a staff thrust sharply into his Adam's apple, his elderly foe towering above him with his short sword poised to thrust straight down and end the prince's life.

"Do you want to give up?"

Arthur gurgled something indistinct against the pressure on his throat, and then grinned evilly.

Whatever Gaius's alleged misgivings about the failings of guardsmen, they had good timing when it was convenient.

The old man was forced to his knees, his sword and staff wrenched from his hands.

As with the day before, sky met thundercloud, and the prince once again found his soul under the scrutiny of his bizarre opponent's questioning gaze.

_What__will__you__do,__princeling?_ The old man's eyes seemed to say. _What__is__my__fate?_ _Will__you__seek__retribution?__Or__will__you__acknowledge__the__worthy__foe?_

"Let him go."

With a flicker of an eyebrow, a faint hint of diabolical amusement crept back into the eyes of the ex-sorcerer, and the old man rose, thrusting his sword back into its sheath and leaning on his staff.

The tension between young prince and old warlock stretched out for a few moments before the older man's mouth broke out into an all-encompassing smile beneath his beard.

"Well, princeling. I hope you enjoyed your dancing lesson."

And with that, he strode away, making it halfway down the street before the prince called back to him.

"There's something about you, greybeard."

The so-called greybeard snorted and turned away, but not before shouting back.

"Tell your father Dragoon sends his regards!"

_What__kind__of__name__is__Dragoon?__Well,_Dragoon_,__I__can__'__t__wait__for__our__next__ '__dancing__lesson__'__._

He would get it sooner than he thought.

**X**

The glamours and enchantments that disguised the witch melted away, the voluptuous lady Helen giving way to the sagging form of Mary Collins, evidently here to avenge herself on the man who executed her dearest son.

Although it's kind of hard to stab the prince of Camelot when you're pinned to the floor beneath a chandelier that has conveniently struck you down and interrupted your soothing sleeping spell.

Not to mention torn apart that lovely enchantment that kept you looking younger than any moisturising cream could.

Brushing aside the silky cobwebs, spun from purest magic in the moments the gathering in the hall had been ensorcelled into deepest sleep, the assembled members of the court sent up a round of gasps at the sight of the witch helpless beneath the chandelier, the danger seemingly passed.

Of course, nothing is ever that simple.

With a last, desperately grunted incantation, Mary Collins flung her dagger at the shocked prince, who could do nothing to avoid the tumbling blade's approach.

And then Dragoon was there, leaping from his seat on the low tables with a suitably heroic cry, coming between the prince and a dagger in the brain, a sliver platter thrust forwards.

With a little ripping noise the blade embedded itself to the hilt in the centre of the platter. Grunting something that sounded a bit like 'amateur', Dragoon threw the tray to his feet and turned to the prince and the king, eyebrow disappearing into his gunmetal hairline.

Warlock and king regarded each other for a few long seconds.

"I seem to be slipping back into bad habits, Uther."

The king frowned, and then recognition swept across his weathered visage.

"It's you…" Uther Pendragon breathed, sweeping around the table with open arms.

Dragoon subtly shook his head, and Uther dropped his arms, a flicker of disappointment registering in his eyes, quickly extinguished by gratitude.

"Thank you, Dragoon."

Dragoon grunted and shrugged.

"It's what I do."

The king nodded and smiled, then his eyes misted over for a few seconds as though remembering something long in the past. This introspective moment passed as soon as it had come, and the king clapped a hand to Dragoon's shoulder, turning the old man to face the crowd as Arthur and the lady Morgana came around the table to join them.

"You must be rewarded!" Uther said, as applause broke out through the hall.

Dragoon shook his head, but was completely struck dumb at what next came out of the king's mouth.

"You shall have the job I should have given you long ago… a position in the royal household, as my son's personal advisor and trainer!"

Both Dragoon and Arthur's protests were lost in the tumult of applause that followed this proclamation.

**X**

"_Father_!"

"I will hear no more protests, Arthur."  
>"But I hate him, and he hates me!"<p>

Uther silenced his son with the legendary Pendragon handwave.

"Dragoon can teach you things that no-one else can."

"Father, I have been schooled by the most learned men and greatest battle-masters in all the Five Kingdoms. What can one old man teach me that they cannot?"

Uther frowned, and looked down, gripping the armrests of his throne, finally meeting his son's gaze, speaking softly, but with steely fervour.

"I think that only he knows that."

A faint, gravelly cry of _princeling!_ echoed through the open doors of the throne room.

Uther smiled, stood, and placed a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Your dancing master is calling. You'd better see what your first lesson is."

**X**

"At least this way you can protect him."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it, Gaius."

"You don't have to. It's your destiny."

"You're starting to sound like the damned Dragon."

Gaius glanced out of the window at the position of the sun.

"Speaking of your destiny, it's about time you went calling for him. It's time for his first lesson."

Dragoon groaned, and gathered up his work clothes.

Settling his enormous hat upon his greying head, the old warlock strode out of the physician's chambers with a weak smile.

Gaius chuckled to himself as a faint cry of _princeling!_ reached his ears.

_**A/N:**_The idea of this fic is that Merlin is already a powerful and wise warlock by the time he comes to Camelot and learns of his destiny, and so ends up with a teacher-mentor position with Arthur, more like traditional Arthurian mythology.

Therefore, I'll be playing up to the Trickster Mentor elements of the more traditional Merlin.

And yes, his name is Merlin, but only those closest to him know that that is his true name, Dragoon being an alias he acquired at some point in his long and adventurous history that we'll learn more about later.

I wanted to see what the series would be like if Merlin had already earned his wisdom and power, and how that might affect the series – although I can't decide whether an early magic reveal will come into it.

I think I have a good one lined up for The Sins of The Father, but I don't know whether to wait for the canon reveal first – which I hope will be at the end of this series (Four).

I won't do every episode in this kind of detail, just important bits and pieces and how I think they might change.

Suggestions? Comments? Reviews?  
>Anything is welcome.<p>

_- Doc'_


	2. Snakes and Plagues

Arthur was sitting in council with his father when someone tried to kill him.

With a blood-curdling cry, a tumbling figure bundled in swaths of inky cloth spun from the chandelier in the council chamber, sword shining bright as it plunged towards the prince.

Arthur threw himself back, tipping over his chair – only to find that his attacker was a training dummy dangling from the chandelier, wobbling on the end of the rope it swung dangerously from, the councillors around the table leaning backwards from the thankfully blunted sword in the dummy's grip.

Arthur stood up to a table of bewildered expressions, which turned to ones of shock as a sword point was pressed to the back of his neck.

The king's mouth was pressed into a desperately suppressed line of amusement.

Geoffrey of Monmouth too appeared to be fighting a smile, with less success.

Arthur bristled and raised his hands.

Then he bristled some more as a wheezy chuckle sounded behind him.

Uther looked down and bit his lip as Dragoon's chuckles devolved into helpless cackles.

"Oh, your faces!"

The old man dropped the point of his blade and clapped a hand to Arthur's shoulder as he swept from the council chamber, grinning that insufferable grin behind his enormous beard.

"Rule twelve, princeling!" The old sorcerer shouted as he reached the doors, "When everyone else is distracted, don't look at the distraction!"

**X**

"Rule fifteen! Self-sufficiency!"

Dragoon waved his arm declamatorily around Arthur's chambers.

"What do you see?"

"My chambers." The prince replied, blandly.

"Do you notice anything about your chambers, hmm?"

Arthur glanced around, taking in the pile of washing by the door, the layers of dust, the wrinkled bedclothes, the unpolished armour, and the errant sock dangling from the handle of a half-opened wardrobe.

"I can see that my manservant hasn't been doing his job properly."

"Precisely! The poor boy can barely stand up, so… I gave him the day off."

Arthur's eyes bulged dangerously.

"You can't do that!"

"I can, and I did. Now…" The old man gestured to the shambolic clutter littering the prince's chambers.

"Time to tidy up and put away! Your servants will not always be around to clean up after you. In case of rebellion, revolution, or reassignment," the old man punctuated the three r's with a sharp rap of his staff on the flagstones for emphasis, "It is _imperative_ that you learn to be tidy."

The prince gaped at the man who was to be his 'teacher', answerable only to his father.

"And close your mouth before a spider crawls in there, princeling. I _hate_ spiders."

**X**

"What exactly is it that he does, sire?"

Arthur was just as clueless as Sir Leon, who – being the speak-softly-and-see-everything type – should have figured out the answer himself, if there was one.

The subject of their discussion was stood in the centre of the training field with a disgusted expression on his face, mostly concealed by his beard.

Dragoon violently waved away the proffered mace, shield, and armour, waving his arms alarmingly and sending the squires running for what could quite possibly be their lives if the old man was so inclined. The knights assumed bemused expressions, and stood back to watch as Dragoon instead drew his short sword from where it hung at his waist, looking disturbingly amused as one of the knights' most recent recruits – clad head to toe in chainmail, helmeted, with shield at the ready and mace raised – advanced warily upon him.

With befuddled trepidation, the young knight stopped short of the old sorcerer, who merely quirked an eyebrow and left his sword-arm dangling by his side, leaning on his staff.

"I don't know." The folded-armed prince finally replied, as the helmeted knight paused, utterly bewildered, and swung his mace down towards Dragoon's head.

With the same bizarre quickness that Arthur had observed in the market, Dragoon lurched back and thrust his staff into the forehead of the knight's helmet – _once,_twice – and down he went, stumbling drunkenly, dropping his mace and then to his knees.

Leon looked impressed.

Arthur scowled.

"He annoys me, that's what."

**X**

Arthur wasn't sure when it was exactly he began to feel anything but contempt for the elderly advisor his father has thrust upon him.

He supposed it was the Valiant incident.

**X**

When Dragoon had confronted him with the accusation, Arthur had used the opportunity to vent the frustration the past days of being forced to tidy his own chambers and polish his own armour had heaped upon him.

"_You may be my 'trainer' but you are also a servant of the kingdom, and I need a servant that I can trust! One who doesn't accuse every man who may have looked at me askance!"_

"_You_can_trust__me!__"_

Arthur technically could not dismiss Dragoon, for it was by the king's command that Arthur suffered under the alleged tutelage of the old man, and so Arthur did not have the authority to rid himself of the insufferable fool.

He could, however, swear to have nothing to do with Dragoon ever again.

Of course, the old man was right about the snake shield thing.

_The doors of the throne room burst open in the midst of morning council._

_Privately, Arthur was glad that his old tutor chose that moment to interrupt the grain reports._

_But he would never tell._

_Uther frowned and sat up at the sight of Dragoon marching into the long chamber, Knight Valiant's shield in an iron grip._

_The expression of the knight in question turned from a devilish grin directed at the lady Morgana to a quickly concealed flash of terror._

_Dragoon stopped immediately in front of the treacherous knight, grinning impishly – a grin that Arthur had never seen before, but one that he would become familiar with in the dangerous future._

_This particular grin did not reach Dragoon's eyes; those twinkling blue orbs, normally deep and blue as the ocean, had frozen, as though someone had sunk a hundred glaciers to the depths of the sea, chilling it completely._

_They still sparkled with wit, but it was the wit that can spot a traitor at a hundred paces and still think of a snarky remark right before defusing a nasty plot._

"_Are you aware that your shield is enchanted?"_

_Uther's eyes flew open as gasps went up around the court._

_Knight Valiant's mouth flapped as he fished for words in his defence – but he found none under Dragoon's intense stare, boring right into him._

_The old man thrust the shield at Valiant, who caught it clumsily and held it to his chest, and took a step back._

_Dragoon__rapped__twice__on__the__snake__shield__with__his__staff__and__said,__clearly__and__slowly,__as__though__the__words__were__utterly__alien__to__him,_"Ic ábéodan þá aspideas!_"_

_The throne room was filled with the sound of hissing._

After Sir Ewain testified – having been saved by Dragoon from another of Valiant's snakes on his sickbed – there was no doubt in anybody's mind.

As the _thunk_of the executioner's axe faded, Arthur offered an apology, in his belated and disguised-as-an-insult way.

Dragoon didn't make him tidy his chambers for two weeks after that.

**X**

He should have been more careful. He really should.

The guards cloak-ignoring proclivities only went so far, and he _really_had been pushing it.

It was something Dragoon had worn every now and then on his travels when he needed a menacing outline, be it in the dark of night or standing proud and billowing atop a wind-swept crag.

The cloak was the blood-crimson of Camelot's knights; the hood was deeper than a goldmine and hung over his face in a mask, with narrow eye-slits like dark razors.

It pooled out in deep folds when still, and flapped at the slightest movement. In the wind, it snapped and flapped and tossed and billowed like a red breeze.

It was truly the stuff evil sorcerers with an appreciation of aesthetics drooled over.

It even had an anti-snagging enchantment.

Despite all these wonderful qualities, it was _made__to__be__noticed_.

So when Gwen was accused of colluding with the sorcerer who unleashed the mysterious plague on Camelot, Dragoon shouldn't have been surprised that a guardsman patrolling the town had seen him – in his disguise – entering her house and healing her father.

He really was getting sloppy in his old age.

**X**

"I did it! I am the sorcerer who unleashed the plague!"

Arthur inwardly cursed his old tutor's stupidity. Damn the noble old fool trying to save Gwen at the cost of his own life.

The prince was about to protest, but his father held up a hand, silencing the council.

"I do not believe that for a second."

Dragoon's hand curled into a fist, a white, bony spider, dead and withdrawn.

"Have you forgotten, Uther? You killed my wife and my friends, destroyed my family, _my__life_."

Silence.

Uther turned to his son.

"Arthur, would you say that Dragoon is friends with the girl Guinevere?"

Arthur nodded, slowly, his eyes fixed upon Dragoon, and Uther turned back to the enraged old man.

"I know you of old, Dragoon. You would give your life for a friend without hesitation. But that does not change the fact that the girl has conspired with a sorcerer."

Dragoon's fist curled tighter, if it was possible. Arthur could have sworn his father shifted a little, nervously, in his seat.

For a moment it seemed the old man was going to say something; then, he simply turned upon his heel and swept from the throne room, raising tuts from the councillors about etiquette.

As his old teacher left, Arthur couldn't help but think.

_Why isn't he like the others?_

**X**

"_It's an afanc! Of course; I should have remembered the last time…"_

Armed with the certainty of what they were facing, Dragoon rounded up the prince and the lady Morgana, and from then on it was a simple matter of finding the monster, then hanging back and working some – not exactly subtle, but nothing that could directly implicate him – magic to set the blasted creature ablaze.

"_Lyft__is__þe__in__bǽlwielm__ac__forhienan__se__wiðere!__"_

And after that, it was a simple matter of donning his ridiculously billowy cloak once more, and appearing in Uther's chambers to deliver a convoluted explanation about revenging himself upon Gwen's father by getting his daughter executed. Something about a leaky bucket.

It sounded ridiculous to Dragoon, but to Uther it made perfect sense, and as soon as the enraged king was coherent and had stopped frothing at the mouth about his personal security, he had Gwen released and compensated immediately.

**X**

"Father?"

Uther looked up from his plate, chewing the last of his meal.

"Yes, Arthur?"

Here, the prince bit his lip. Curiosity clawed at his stomach, but so did tact. This was Dragoon's private life long-past that he was thinking about.

If Dragoon had anything to say about this, then he would say it in his own time. But in the end curiosity won.

"Is… Dragoon a… sorcerer?"

Uther's goblet froze at his lips.

The king solemnly placed it down upon the table.

Across from Arthur, Morgana – who Arthur knew had found the old man in question utterly endearing – paused in cutting her venison.

"Many years ago… Dragoon worked here, sometimes. Often, he would simply disappear, and then return as though he had never been away, though sometimes he vanished for months on end. He was a healer. When even

Gaius's skills were insufficient, Dragoon could cure any ill with his… magic."

Arthur silently pressed his father with the unspoken question.

Uther glanced back to Arthur.

"I knew him well enough then and I know him will enough know to know that he will never forgive me for… executing his wife. But I know he is a man of his word; he swore to me that he would never again use magic in his life, and I _know_ he has kept that oath."

Uther drained his goblet, and Arthur knew that the question was closed.

_**A/N:**___Thanks for all the lovely reviews. As requested, here is MOAR!

I'm going to have lots of fun with the Uther-Dragoon relationship; you'll find out more when (and if) I get round to Sins of the Father, eventually (which may or may not become an early magic reveal).


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